


The Beautiful Stranger

by elwinglyre



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: AU post-Armageddon, And that Crowley is a demon, Angst, Aziraphale forgot a lot, Aziraphale human, Crowley Demon, Fairies & Goblins OCs, Humor, Like he was an angel, M/M, Memory Loss, No kittens die in this story. Promise., Psychic Abilities, Psychic Bond, aziraphale is oblivious, kind of ...
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-09-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:00:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24961222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elwinglyre/pseuds/elwinglyre
Summary: Aziraphale the Beautiful Stranger believes he’s psychic. His assistant, Crowley the Flash Bastard, makes it happen as his spiritual conduit and his (supposed) psychic connection. It’s a grand illusion that Crowley dedicates himself to continue—either until the end of days or Aziraphale comes to his senses, whichever comes first.AU post-Armageddon where fantasy world collides with reality (a bit of residual from Adam’s imagination). POV Aziraphale.Thank you to the incredible kongeriket-noregur for the beta and incredible suggestions. I appreciate all you do, especially now with our lives so crazy!
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 31
Collections: Good AUmens AU Fest





	1. Breathe on the Glass

“Loud and obnoxious brutes,” Aziraphale grumbled under his breath. “I’m certain Crowley will be _tickled_ . He _adores_ chaos.”

He, however, is not so keen on chaos. Aziraphale prefers the refined company of fairies, not the boorish behavior of these goblins that Crowley insisted they invite. And where was he? Nowhere to be seen, that’s not unusual!

After the buffet and the last of the roast pork was devoured, the creatures began to munch on the stuffing out of Aziraphale’s rosewood-and-inlaid-brass chaise lounge. 

“Stop that! Shoo! Away! Have the fruit salad!” Aziraphale tries to take a swat at one of the goblins, but instead the goblin turns and tries to bite Aziraphale’s hand. 

“Crowley! Get over here!”

Still no Crowley. What little of the fine, Baroque floral upholstery that hasn’t been ingested is now in shreds. Why, oh, why had he let Crowley talk him into this? Never again. While it’s true that fairy soirees often end in orgies, Aziraphale would much prefer fairies copulating on the furniture than eating it. 

With the goblins becoming more and more restless, they were in need of a distraction or they’d begin to eat the rest of the furniture. 

He rolls his eyes and saunters between two goblins disagreeing about what tastes better, art deco, mid-modern, or Victorian.

“I supposed it’s up to me, as usual.”

 _A perfect opportunity to defy some natural laws and wow them_ , thinks Aziraphale. No simple parlor tricks will do for the goblins. They need flash and bang. At least they know how to enjoy a good show.

“As your host, I, Aziraphale The Beautiful Stranger, invite you to the parlor where I will amaze and astound you with acts of prestidigitation and psychic wonders!”

What Aziraphale _does_ state is his professional moniker. He feels it’s a bit pretentious, but Crowley keeps insisting that it fits him. What Aziraphale does _not_ state is that he can speak with Crowley mentally. They often converse this way— a talent that Aziraphale has always had with Crowley as his conduit. While connected, Aziraphale witnesses visions of what is about to happen, and can move objects and conjure spirits. Crowley’s proximity amplifies Aziraphale’s powers. While Aziraphale can do basic magic tricks, those are merely for fun and show. 

Aziraphale began with some sleight of hand—entertainment for the easily amused. 

He waves his arm and green sparks shoot from his fingertips across the room, hitting the goblins that tried to bite him. He claps his hands and a cloud of rolling green smoke billows up and out, enveloping four of the goblins who ate his chaise lounge. 

His _real_ psychic powers were reserved for special occasions. The scarves were for show, but he has a fondness for them. 

They screech and howl inside of the cloud. When Aziraphale conjures a rainbow of scarves from a goblin beside him from out of his pointed orange ears, it grabs them and stuffs them in his mouth. 

Instead of oohs and aahs from the goblin, he got, “Mmmm. This is delicious!”

“Don’t do that!” Aziraphale scolds. 

“Want ‘em back?” it burps.

“No!” Aziraphale frowns in disgust as a squat, orange goblin turns and belches. “Not regurgitated!”

“Picky, picky.” One of the creatures that Crowley says resembles the Oompa Loompa, wipes his mouth. 

So much for sleight of hand.

“I wanna see me a demon,” the goblin complains. 

Aziraphale slaps on an artificial smile and scans the room for Crowley. Still nowhere to be seen. 

“Where’s the demon?” says the goblin.

Where _was_ Crowley? He wasn’t _really_ a demon, of course, just was delusional and had somehow bamboozled the goblins into believing he was one. The problem is that Crowley believes it himself. He would say that the man is schizophrenic, but in all other aspects, he is average as far as Aziraphale can determine. As of late, he’d dropped the matter entirely, except for whenever he’d had one too many glasses of wine. _Then_ he spins tales about his Fall from Heaven, his life as a serpent, and how he tempted Eve. When in these delusional states, he even calls Aziraphale his angel. Aziraphale rather enjoys the endearment, but Crowley becomes offended whenever Aziraphale argues with him about it. 

_“I am!” Crowley had said. “I am a demon and you are an angel.”_

_“Pish posh!” Aziraphale had said. “As if angels and demons would ever be friends!”_

He’s obviously gone and told the goblins the same story. They crowd around Aziraphale waiting for him to unleash his psychic powers. Crowley had insisted that he dress the part tonight and not wear his usual magician’s coat. 

_“This occasion calls for your technicolor dreamcoat,” Crowley had said, holding it out to him. Aziraphale smiled and took off his magician’s coat, and donned the dreamcoat._

It made no difference. The coat’s importance is completely lost on goblins. After all, they’d rather eat it. Now, Fairies, _they_ would have appreciated it. The next party _he_ is sending out the invitations, and it didn’t have to be supernatural guests. He’d invite humans for a change. Sometimes, there was something to be said for being with your own kind.

Aziraphale motions for the goblins to come into his sitting room. They crowd inside, most of them pushing and shoving to get through the door. Aziraphale sits down at the round wooden table with an antique lace tablecloth and a crystal ball resting dead center. Inside of it, a storm brews, casting a purple glow across Aziraphale’s face. His hands hover above the glass globe. His sky-blue eyes dance in delight before the swirling brew inside. 

“Eenie meenie, chilibeani, the spirits are about to speak.”

A voice guffaws inside Aziraphale’s head. It’s Crowley, answering: _“Are they friendly spirits?”_

“Just listen!” Aziraphale presses his ear to the crystal ball, and all of the goblins crowd in closer. 

“I don’t hear nothin’!” says a tall green goblin with bulging, bloodshot eyes. 

“You need to be patient,” says Crowley. 

Crowley’s voice is no longer in his head. Instead, he’s directly behind him.

“It always takes a few moments before the spirits speak. They’re fickle. Some are friendly, some are fierce but most are just plain cantankerous.”

“What would you know?” spits the goblin who tried to take a bite out of him.

“He is a mortal yet he lives with a demon,” says the large goblin standing next to Aziraphale. “He _must_ hold special powers.”

Of course tonight the spirits would choose to be simply shy or altogether silent. Aziraphale longs to have Crowley’s consciousness come closer. When their minds embrace in a cosmic prism that breaks the white light in his mind into a kaleidoscope of colors. Instead of the world around him happening all at once, Crowley helps him to separate the colors, his mind focuses, refracts, and comprehends. Through this process Crowley knows him. He has learned his moods and more—this sensory spectrum is unlike any in the physical realm. Crowley may be in the room and standing behind him. He may even touch his shoulder with his long fingers, or brush hands, but nothing, nothing compares to the intimacy of Crowley touching his mind! The wonder of it, excites Aziraphale. Nothing compares to the connection.

Before Crowley, Aziraphale had spoke to spirits and read the future in tea leaves regularly, but after, his connection to the spirit realm became strong with Crowley focusing him—the deeper Crowley travels into his psychic center, the closer the spirits pass to this earthly existence. Crowley is that necessary conduit, that prism from which light bends and calls the spirits. Without Crowley, their voices are echoes on the wind. The world happens all at once without Crowley’s guidance. Aziraphale can also see faint apparitions of those in the other realm without his talisman, but that is all.

Aziraphale closes his eyes to aid the spirits to come forth. Aziraphale waves his arm above his head, and the lights dim. The goblins gasp in response.

Aziraphale sways, keeping his eyes pressed tight. “A-wop-bop-a-loo-lop a-lop-bam-boo. Tutti Frutti, good booty. A-wop-bop-a-loo-lop a-lop bam boo,” he chants. 

Behind him, Crowley laughs with delight. He’s swaying silently in unison with Aziraphale, his golden eyes watching. 

“The demon, the demon,” the room full of goblins chant.

Aziraphale looks back at Crowley before he bows his head. Despite stealing the show with his snakey slithering, Aziraphale takes delight in Crowley’s impish grin.

“I thought you wanted me to conjure spirits?” Aziraphale asks.

“More demons? Yes!” says the orange goblin. 

Aziraphale resumed hovering his hands over the crystal ball and a new glow begins inside, this one in cascading swirls of scarlet. 

A sudden puff of red smoke fills the room. As it clears, an odd being stands, very tall and far too thin. It grimaces as his jaw twitches. Maggots fall one by one out of his hair and onto Aziraphale’s Persian rug. 

“Why have you called me?” it asks. Its teeth are yellow and pointed and its red tongue forked. “Why am I here? Who summoned me?” The odd creature’s eyes narrow. “Is that you, Crowley?” 

“ _He_ called for a demon and here you are,” Crowley explains with a nod to Aziraphale.

“I don’t come to the likes of y _ou,_ ” spat the demon. “ _Flash Bastard_.”

“But you didn’t. You came for _me_ , demon” Aziraphale says.

“Not likely. What _are_ you?” The demon sneers at Aziraphale. “And address me as a Duke of Hell. You’re just some smarmy mortal. I could crush you in my fists.” He raises his hands to illustrate, pretending to crush an imaginary Aziraphale between them.

Crowley sighs and crosses his arms. “I was thinking you could share with these fine goblins some of your vilest deeds. Give us a story ...” 

Aziraphale is happy to see Crowley's suggestion work. The demon’s eyes turn bright red with excitement. 

“Let me see,” the demon says and taps his blistering lips with its filthy forefinger. “Vilest? I persuaded a rock musician to bite off a bat’s head in front of an audience of thousands and made an archbishop shoot melons out of his bum.”

“Is that it? You completely took that idea of biting off bat heads from one of Duke Amdusias’ concerts in Hell. Although that is a step up from tempting priests to look at pretty girls. Pah! You can do better than that! Let’s give these good goblins a fightful show.” Crowley points to a particularly foul looking goblin with snot oozing from its nose. “I bet you could make Klurtwart here kiss a kitten.” 

How does Crowley even know the goblins’ names?

“No! Anything but that!” Klurtwart blubbers, but then ponders on the idea and begins to drool. “Might not be so bad, if I gets to eat it after. They’re nice and tender.”

“Eat a kitten?” This Duke of Hell exclaims in horror. “You can’t eat cuddly kittens. Why that’s …”

“Despicable?” Crowley gives a wicked smile.

Aziraphale is stunned. The demon’s reaction is completely out of character. What demon likes kittens? This one, apparently. And Crowley’s reaction, it's as if he expected this reaction?

In the end, the demon doesn’t make anyone kiss or eat kittens. Instead it conjures up fire and brimstone, which sets off the smoke detector. 

The piercing screech fills the house. The goblins howl and cry in anguish.

“My ears, my ears! Make it stop!” they scream. 

“Oh! Get thee behind me, you foul fiend,” Aziraphale shouts, then whispers conspiratorially to Crowley, “We’ll have to remember that next time we want to drive a group of goblins out of my house.” 

“It's a malignity,” Crowley corrects him. “A group of goblins is called a malignity; fairies, a frolick; whales and dolphins, a pod.”

“Why ever would I need to know how to drive dolphins and whales out of the house?”

“I wasn’t … never mind,” Crowley huffs.

After the goblins' quick departure, and they’ve begun to sort and clean the mess, Aziraphale turns to Crowley.

“My poor sofa. I did so love to relax on it.”

“Sorry about that,” Crowley says. “They only chewed on the legs a bit. I can get it reupholstered for you…”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes. “They found the brass inlay unappetizing. By the way, how did you know that demon?” Aziraphale asked. This was most perplexing. 

“He’s a demon. I know another demon when he meets one.”

“Crowley! Will you stop that.I don’t find it humorous anymore.”

“How can you believe he’s a demon and that I’m not one?”

“You’re not a demon, and I wish you would stop calling yourself that. You're far too kind and thoughtful to be a demon. A demon would never make tea and serve it on silver tea service. And would never add two sugars to my cup either.”

Crowley sighs deeply and gives Aziraphale the saddest look he’s ever seen from him.

“I’m sorry, but I am. And you were once an angel with lovely, white wings.”

“Pah! And I suppose I had a halo too? What self-respecting demon would even call an angel’s wings lovely? You need to forget this nonsense. They section humans for believing these sorts of things.” Aziraphale sighed, tired of this. They have gone around and around like this many times before. “If you truly _are_ a demon, prove it to me. Do something demonic.”

“I do it every day.”

“And what, may I ask, do you do?”

“Assist you with your psychic needs.”

“My dear boy, a real demon would do all sorts of diabolical deeds. Just like one I conjured.”

“I used to do those things. Before.”

“There you go again, always with the ‘before.’ Before what?”

“Before we became friends. _They_ didn’t like that we were friends. Especially not Gabriel, that’s why he punished you, made you mortal.”

“And how were you punished?” 

Crowley shook his head. “It’s better that you never know.”

“This is ridiculous! Since when do demons care? I am not an angel, I never was an angel.”

What Aziraphale doesn’t admit is that he has dreams about flying. However, he read that it’s common for humans to wish to have flight, like fairies. Although in his dreams, he has feathers like a bird, not the dragonfly wings of the fairies.

He also dreams of Crowley as a snake, but that’s merely the power of suggestion, and Crowley’s obsession.

“I am human and a psychic and that is all. I would remember if I ever had wings or flew around in clouds. And you, Crowley, are no demon.”

“Alright. You’re a medium, but you were so much more...”

“No, my dear. You are a medium. I am a large,” Aziraphale said quickly.

“I was talking about psychic abilities, not clothes sizes.”

“How many times have I explained this to you, I am both a psychic _and_ a medium. There is a difference.”

“There’s also a difference between being born human and becoming human when you once were an angel,” Crowley says to him. “I wish I had that Aziraphale back.”

Aziraphale flinches. “That is mean. There’s nothing to get back.” 

“Oh, yes there is! I want the Aziraphale who was always talking about Divine Plans and thwarting the Evil One. The one who was always worried about Up There. I’ve told you this countless times before. We. Were. Friends. We’ve been friends for thousands of years! You were an angel, and I am a demon. Gabriel got pissed that we were fraternizing and transformed you into a mortal, and the process discombobulated your celestial mind. Think!”

Aziraphale watches Crowley wave his arms to the sky in blame.

“Well, that’s the problem. You can’t think,” Crowley hisses out, then spins around on his heels, “Or at least, you can’t remember! I know you have dreams about us. Don’t you think I don’t see that when you let me into your head? Our conversation at Noah’s Ark is still there. That isn’t a dream, _it happened_ . And you were with me watching them build Hadrian’s Wall. The Crusades? _There!_ What about that time with those Nazi’s? I hot-footed it into the church and saved you. Will you please remember?”

“ _You_ put all of that craziness into my mind.” Aziraphale can’t help but cross his arms in defense.

“Look at my eyes!” Crowley whips off his glasses. 

Aziraphales raises his chin and stares into them. “It’s a genetic defect called coloboma that creates optic fissures that make your eyes look snake-like.”

He keeps his eyes on Crowley’s. They’re almost hypnotic!

“Yeah, and there are no fairies or goblins, at least there weren’t any before Armageddon.” Crowley’s eyes become slits. “The world has changed. You have changed.”

“Armageddon?”’

“We stopped it. Adam stopped it.”

“This is ridiculous. You are ridiculous. I never said there weren’t fairies or goblins or angels or demons. I said I am not an angel and you are not a demon. That is my final word on the matter.” Aziraphale stomps his right foot for emphasis.

“I blame Adam for all these damned enchanted creatures roaming around,” Crowley says, picking up a half-eaten lampshade. “I need a drink.”

“Oh, no! Not until _after_ you’ve helped me finish picking up this mess.”


	2. Give a Rub with Your Sleeve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you kongeriket-noregur for another superior beta! Your insights make this a better story.

With a deep sigh, Aziraphale kneels down and sweeps the last bits of the broken table lamp into the dustpan. Dear dear, how his back aches from all this bending! He shakes his head with another anguished sigh. It was such a lovely piece from Tiffany’s. The leaded glass with dragonflies in blues, yellows, and greens that seemed to dance, all gone. He stretches and gives a gasp of relief as his back pops.

What he needs is one of Crowley’s heavenly backrubs. Couldn’t he at least do that for him? He glances over at Crowley, who merely picks a dirty glass up from a table, wrinkles his nose as he examines it, then sets it down in the exact same spot.

“You could at least put it in the sink,” Aziraphale says. 

“I could.” 

But he doesn’t. Crowley is useless only when he wants to be useless. 

“Must you just stand there gawking, dear boy?”

Crowley raises his eyebrow and huffs and, as if to prove Aziraphale correct, doesn’t move. In fact, the way he’s swaying, he looks as though he’s sleeping standing up.

How is it possible that when Aziraphale isn’t around Crowley can rearrange furniture in the blink of an eye, but as soon as Aziraphale appears, it’s as if he’s forgotten how his hands work? 

“Off with you if you’re only going to stand there,” Aziraphale says. He tries his best to shoo Crowley away. 

Instead, the man pouts. It’s proof that he’s no demon. A demon would never pout or look adorable while pouting with his eyes all sleepy. Aziraphale decides to keep this fact to himself since it would upend Crowley’s apple cart of self-delusion where he believes himself a demon from Hell.

He always gets so miffed whenever he’s challenged. Aziraphale lifts up a chair with a groan when he feels a hand brush his shoulder then rest there.

“Why don’t you go to bed, I’ll finish tidying up,” Crowley says, giving Aziraphale’s shoulder a squeeze. 

Aziraphale is usually the last of them to retire at night. His roommate loves to take naps and sleep in; it’s his favorite pastime.

He agrees to let Crowley finish cleaning. If the mess is still there in the morning, he’ll at least have had a bit of rest.

But sleep evades him. His legs get tangled in his sheets. and he throws the quilt onto the floor. He stares at the ceiling and remembers...

He remembers the day Crowley knocked on his door. 

_He had answered the ad for a roommate directly with no phone call. He rapped the brass knocker instead of ringing the doorbell like most people. Aziraphale had since realised that it was because Crowley isn’t like most people. He doesn’t even think he’s human._

_He sees Crowley as he was that day on the top step, stretching and yawning. Aziraphale shuts his eyes and remembers. There he stood. Dark wire-rimmed glasses and a rose red silk shirt half undone, sporting a devilish grin. His red hair was pulled into a neat bun at the back of his head. How he could slip those hands into the pockets of those tight black leather trousers that hugged his thighs like a second skin, Aziraphale didn’t know._

_“I’m here about the notice you ran for a roommate,” Crowley said. He rocked up onto his toes. It was the way Crowley said it that struck him most— a “roooommate” he’d said._

_“Dear, dear. I wasn’t expecting anyone to answer this soon. The advert wasn’t to be posted until tomorrow.”_

_Crowley shrugged and another button came undone on his red shirt. Aziraphale blinked and had to lean against the doorframe for support._

_“I have a friend at the paper who tipped me off. But shouldn't you know that already?”_

_“How would I ever know that, dear boy?”_

_“The sign on the front step says you’re a psychic.”_

_“That it does. Maybe you’re also a psychic. What am I thinking?”_

_“You’re thinking that you should invite your new roommate in for a cup of tea.”_

_There. He strung the ohs together again like he was making love to them. Who was this man who made him swoon?_

He did invite Crowley into his house. In retrospect, Aziraphale wonders about the repercussions of inviting demons into your home. Or is that vampires or the fae? 

It didn’t matter. If Aziraphale knew anything, he knew he was an excellent judge of character. Human, demon, vampire, or fairy, he deemed Crowley trustworthy, despite his bad-boy appearance.

From the moment they met, it was as if he had known Crowley his entire life. They bantered back and forth like old friends over glasses of wine and cups of tea. It was after one too many glasses of fine French wine that Crowley insisted the reason why Aziraphale felt that way was because he had known him his entire life. 

“I knew you before the oceans ran together as one,” Crowley had said. “Before there was a blue sky. I knew you before, when I Fell to earth and crawled upon it. And I also know what’s in your pretty head right now.”

“What’s in my head?” Aziraphale had taken a sip of his wine and batted his eyes. Crowley sipped along with him and rolled his shoulders. Crowley was rather adorable when he had too much wine. 

They bowed their heads together and Crowley stage whispered to Aziraphale. ”At this moment you are thinking … I can’t say it. Oh, Hell. I’m cute! Oh, and that you’re also wondering what it would be like to lick my lips.”

“Why, that’s not true at all!” It wasn’t true at all. He wanted to taste them, but he’d never admit that. “The cute part, yes, but not the other!”

“Wrong. Well, not actually a lie. I’ll let you taste them if you want.”

Aziraphale knew his mouth was open as wide as a fish from the shock of it.

“And now you’re wondering if I really can read your mind or if it’s some sort of trick. It’s not a trick, angel. We have a psychic connection.”

Aziraphle’s heart fluttered then, when he’d called him an angel. He thought it was an endearment until the day Crowley told him why. Even now, he still likes to believe it’s an endearment.

Aziraphale drifts off to sleep thinking what it might be like to hear other soft words from his roommate.

———————-

He wakes to a clean home. Crowley has done it again. He’s somehow managed to replace the Tiffany lamp. It’s not the same as the dragonflies, instead it’s glowing, red poppies.

“Did you read The Mirror this morning? The Kraken has returned, but instead of sinking ships with its tremendous arms, it’s been rescuing sailors from the briny depths.”

“You look rested, angel.” Crowley hairy legs are sprawling out in all directions. If he had six more, he’d be the Kraken, but a Kraken wearing a silk overcoat with argyle cashmere socks.

That nickname again! Must he say that to him?

“I only believe in fairies, goblins, and the Kraken.”

“You need to relax a little. We should go on a road trip. A nice little holiday in the country.”

“Relax? You think I could relax riding in your Bentley? The last time I went for a road trip in your car, my life flashed before my eyes three separate times.”

“You love to live dangerously. But seriously, angel, you need to come. It’ll be a hoot. You and me, the windows down, and the wind in our hair, your worries behind. I’ll plan it all.”

This concerns Aziraphale. 

“One of _your_ plans? I don’t know if I’ll survive the ride, let alone a holiday in the country that you’d plan, especially considering last night’s fiasco.”

As he says this, Crowley’s child-like excitement leaves him. He’s turned from a bouncing bundle of jumping energy to deflated balloon, his arms hanging at his side. Aziraphale knows that some of these dramatics are how Crowley manipulates Aziraphale’s kindhearted generosity to get what he wants. 

With Crowley’s bottom lip beginning to quiver, Aziraphale rolls his eyes. 

“I know I’m going to regret it.”

In one long stride, Crowley steps in front of Aziraphale. 

“I’ve already booked a room,” he says, “in a nice little English hamlet.”

Of course he has, Aziraphale thinks. 

“Don’t fret, angel. It’ll be a nice change. It has unusual natural beauty and the best climate in all of England. And if that’s not enough to strike your fancy, it has these incredible ley lines. Excellent electromagnetic energy.”

————

“I’ll have you know, this is against my better judgement,” Aziraphale says as he places his suitcase into the boot of the Bentley. “Where is it we’re going again?”

He watches his own reflection in Crowley’s glasses. He wishes he wasn’t so self-conscious of his eyes. Aziraphale rather likes them. 

Crowley sets his luggage next to Aziraphale’s. “A cozy town by the name of Tadfield. I think you’ll like it. We’ll be staying in a bed and breakfast in Lower Tadfield.”

Aziraphale notices that Crowley has spied the basket on ground next to his feet. He leans down and opens it to inspect the contents.

“Mmm. Cheese, fruit, sandwiches. I hope these are coming with us in the front seat.”

“Why of course, my dear boy.”

Aziraphale picks up the basket and walks around to the passenger side of the Bentley. He climbs into the front seat, sets the basket at his feet and shuts the door with a slam.

Crowley grasps the steering wheel with the glee of a boy in a sweet shop. The Bentley roars to life and they set out, the car thundering down the road. 

Of course he’s taking the corners practically on two wheels and checking the mirrors for flashing lights. Aziraphale is surprised Crowley hasn’t ever been stopped for speeding. 

Despite the frightening start, once out of London the ride becomes relaxing. Crowley slows the Bentley to a reasonable-ish speed and it purrs down M40. He slows even more as he detours to the quiet, countryside roads. Crowley claims he’s let up on the gas for Aziraphale’s sake, but it’s really because Crowley loves to drive. The longer it takes to get to the destination, the longer he gets to drive his beloved Bentley.

While he has slowed his speed, Aziraphale continues to catch Crowley with his eyes off the winding roads, distracted. Crowley stares over at Aziraphale constantly. Honestly, Aziraphale doesn’t understand why they don’t just drift off the road. The Bentley almost seems to drive itself. Crowley also often fixes his gaze on his fancy watch that not only gave the time of every capital in the world, but could most likely speak and predict the future too. Aziraphale has long suspected it was the watch he might be channelling, not Crowley.

At this very moment, Crowley’s eyes shift to the basket on the floor.

“Are you hungry, my dear?”

“Famished!”

“This looks like a nice area to park and grab a bite.” No way Aziraphale wants Crowley to eat and drive! That could prove more dangerous than even his usual recklessness. 

The Bentley rolls to a stop at the side of the road under an old chestnut tree, just off of a small lane. The view delights Aziraphale. Crowley’s door flies open. Sometimes, Aziraphale thinks this car is alive. 

They climb out of the Bentley. Crowley pulls out a gaudy old crocheted quilt he has in the back seat and carries it over to one of the largest shady trees. He spreads it out for them and helps Aziraphale with the basket.

Crowley sits, legs crossed on the quilt while Aziraphale folds his legs under him as he opens the basket and plucks a nice, plump grape from the bunch and pops it in his mouth.

“How much further?” Aziraphale asks as he hands Crowley a ham and tomato sandwich, lovingly wrapped in wax paper. 

“We’re there, actually. This is Tadfield. The place we’re staying is only a couple of miles from this very spot.”

Aziraphale eyes are suddenly drawn to the lane. His heart pounds, he’s dizzy, and feels like he’s spinning. Visions flash in his mind’s eye. And he hears music: _“Ooh, you make me live._ _”_

“I’m getting the oddest feeling,” Aziraphale says. He feels himself shiver. “I do believe it’s linked to some sort of psychic precognition. I see it all, in this very spot at night, the Bentley, you, me, a bicycle and a girl. No, a young woman!”

 _“_ _Ooh, you're the best friend that I ever had.”_

“Hmm,” Crowley says, smacking his lips. “This is incredible. The tomatoes are succulent. Did you get these from that farmers’ market near Ladbroke Grove? And the ham, delicious. What deli?”

_“I've been with you such a long time, you’re my sunshine …”_

Aziraphale points down the lane, but Crowley is too enraptured with the contents of his sandwich to notice. Azirapahle feels this irresistible desire to follow the lane and see if he’s correct. “I think there is a pond down just beyond those trees,” he adds. 

“You think so?” Crowley says distractedly. “What does it look like?”

_“I really love you. You’re my best friend.”_

Aziraphale closes his eyes. “Clear blue and shimmering. And I hear music. And the lane winds to the east and dips down a hill. There's a wooded area at the bottom of the hill. On the left is a small lake.” He frowns. “Why do I keep seeing this bicycle?”

“Don’t know,” Crowley mumbles between bites.

_“Ooh, you make me live. Ooh, you make me live now honey.”_

Aziraphale eyes fly open. “I see it all. I hear voices and a song. The bike. You … conjured another, but it wasn’t the same.” 

Impossible. It’s impossible, Azirapahle thinks. Crowley could never do that. 

“Most likely a premonition or a form of telesthesia,” he says. “I can even hear an owl from in the trees, scolding us.”

Crowley finally looks over at Aziraphale. “ _Really_?”

The music leaves him, but he still feels as if he’s tumbling down a hill. “‘Ooh, you make me live?’ What was that?”

“Queen? You heard Queen?” Crowley smiles.

“Of course I didn’t hear the Queen. But what I did see and hear was clear. I still feel it in every cell. It must be a psychic experience.” 

“Or a past life,” Crowley suggests.

Aziraphale is surprised he hadn’t thought of that possibility as he’s heard of this before. He jumps up and grabs Crowley’s hand. “Let’s go look.” 

Crowley agrees, but not before snatching up a wrapped sandwich with his free hand.

As they trapse down the hill, Crowley unwraps his sandwich. The farther down the hill they walk, the more Aziraphale is awed. It’s exactly as he saw it. All of it.

“I can see the lake through the trees. And the bike … it was over here,” Aziraphale points excitedly.

“Uh, huh,” Crowley agrees, chewing. “This egg salad is spectacular.”

Aziraphale turns and sees Crowley licking egg salad off his fingers. 

“What are you looking at? It’s good!” Crowley says, taking the last bite. 

Aziraphale turns and dances down to the bottom of the hill. He stops only to wait for Crowley to catch up to him. Crowley steps up to him. They’re nose to nose. Instead of stepping back, Aziraphale steps forward, practically standing on his friend’s precious boots. Even with his mouth stuffed with egg salad, he can’t help thinking how handsome Crowley looks in the dappled light— his sharp features softened and his mouth relaxed. 

Probably from all of that chewing, Aziraphale thinks.

Then suddenly a new vision comes alive in his mind’s eye.

“There she is! The young lady!” He points furiously at the side of the lane. “She’s standing there. Who is she? Why is she here with a broken bike?”

He steps next to Aziraphale, inspecting the spot he was pointing at. “Maybe it will come to you later, angel.” 

“Yes. Maybe.” But Aziraphale isn’t so sure. What is sure of is this is a first for him— to see visions with this much clarity. 

“This is so exciting!” Aziraphale chirps. “I’m doing all of this without our connection. It’s invigorating.”

“I don’t know how I should take that.” Crowley bites his lip and sighs. 

“Don’t take me wrong, dear boy. I love having your help in all things. Well, not _all._ Most. But this is good. It must be a sign. A sign that I’m coming fully into my powers.”

“I hope it’s a sign,” Crowley says, thrusting his hands into his trouser pockets. “Let’s get back on the road.”

Aziraphale’s eyes shine with excitement. “Crowley! Maybe it’s related to electromagnetic energy, like you referred to yesterday. I might be tapping into it.”

But Crowley frowns. “Possibly. We can always come back here. I’d like to settle in our room and then take a stroll around the shops.”

“If we must. You were so, so correct regarding the enchanting beauty. I can’t wait to see more of Tadfield.”

“I can’t wait for you to see it too.”

They begin the climb back uphill when it occurs to Aziraphale what Crowley had said.

“Did you say _room_ , as in a _single_ room?”

“It’s all they had,” Crowley says, plainly.

Aziraphale takes a moment to catch his breath. He’s unsure if it’s the steep hill or the thought of the sleeping arrangements.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Notes for this chapter:**  
>  🎵 Crowley, his beloved Bentley that plays Queen's Greatest Hits of course includes ["You're My Best Friend"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HaZpZQG2z10) (linked to song on Youtube). All of the lyrics are them, but especially "I've been with you such a long time" and "I really love you. You're my best friend" are definitely lines that are applicable to their relationship! 🎵
> 
>  **Telesthesia:** This is a long-distance form of sensory perception where the senses (sight, hearing, touch, smell) detect what is far from them. For example, seeing what's around a corner before it's there. In Aziraphale's case, what's at the bottom of the hill. (Thank you, kongeriket-noregur, for pointing out that a lot of people may not know what telesthesia is).


	3. Slip Me Your Wallet

As they drive into the town of Tadfield, sparks of familiarity flash through Aziraphale’s being. Aziraphale can no longer deny the possibility that he’s not only has he been here before.

It seems impossible. How could he have been an angel? It’s even more impossible to believe that Crowley is actually a demon. 

Demons don’t talk to their Boston ferns as they water them or serve breakfast in bed to their roommates. Yet Aziraphale can’t deny these visions, and the feeling deep down inside him that he’s known Crowley far longer and intimately than humanly possible. 

An angel and demon, friends? Hardly possible, yet ...

He takes a long look at Crowley’s profile as his friend thumps the wheel and sings along to that ungodly music he insists on playing. 

_ “I see a little silhouetto of a man, Scaramouche, Scaramouche, will you do the Fandango?” _

Aziraphale notes that the music is nonsense, yet it’s not. It’s the same with his surroundings. And it’s also the same road, the same railway station, only the hedges surrounding it are gone. Aziraphale knows the hedges guarding the station like he knows that the large building that’s on the left was once a hospital. The Bentley slows. 

_ “Thunderbolt and lightning, very, very frightening me …” _

The Bentley has come to a complete halt in front of the Tadfield Manor. “Must you?” 

“ _ Galileo, Galileo, Galileo _ …” Crowley stops singing and turns his head to Aziraphale. “What? Of course I must.” 

“If this— ” Azirphale waves from Crowley to the cassette player, “is for my benefit, my boy, you may stop.”

“Nonono. It’s not just for your benefit. It passes the time. You know about time. It’s what you lost. Don’t you see?” he points to the gates of the manor. “It’s brilliant! After a short visit, we’re off to Lower Tadfield and our bed and breakfast.”

As the Bentley’s doors pop open (how does Crowley do that?), Aziraphale's mind flickers with what must be the inside of the Manor. With a sudden flash, he recalls the feel of Crowley’s fingers clutching his coat and his lean body pressing Aziraphale against a wall with their lips but a breath apart. Along with the vision, he feels the passion, the longing in that moment. 

Aziraphale gasps and slams his hands on the dash of the Bentley. “What’s wrong?” Crowley asks.

Aziraphale blinks. He can’t possibly share that vision with Crowley. “Why do the doors open when you snap your fingers, and why is it that I never see you ever put petrol in? AND why is the fuel gauge always pointing to “empty”?” 

“Must I continue to explain this do you? The car was manufactured by a demon; moi,” Crowley says with a raise of his eyebrow. “You’re only just noticing the no petrol? Are you sure that’s all that’s wrong?”

“Yes I’m sure, very sure.” Aziraphale bit his lip. “Whyever does the name ‘The Nattering Nuns of St. Bernard’s’ come to me?”

“That’s ‘The Chattering Order of St. Beryl.’ They were nuns in charge of attending to the correct placement of the antichrist, which they thoroughly and thankfully mucked up.”

Crowley waits for Aziraphale to get out of the car, but he refuses. Aziraphale sits with his feet firmly planted in the footwell.

“I see. And this is to be another walk through past-memory lane?” Aziraphale shakes his head, recalling the heat of Crowley pressing against him. “I think I would rather remain seated.”

It’s the first time he’s ever considered the car a haven.

“I don’t know why you keep trying,” Aziraphale says. 

“It’s not because I’m going … you know.” Crowley taps the dash one more time and the Bentley roars back to life. 

“Good?”

“It’s because of the arrangement we made somewhere around 1020.”

Aziraphale refuses to ask what the arrangement entailed. Instead, he crosses his arms. He dislikes being angry with Crowley—he always has. 

_ What is always?  _

The idea of always with Crowley as thousands of years of past history puts Aziraphale in a state of panic and confusion. And what of this arrangement? Then, he Sees it: a panorama of time in his head. He’s spinning, and what unfolds flies by far too fast for Aziraphale to see clearly, but one event. He hands a tartan thermos to Crowley. He knows, _ knows _ , it’s filled with holy water. He’s handing death to Crowley. Why?

He has no context for these sights, sounds, and emotions. His chest clenches in agony. The words to Crowley’s song come back: _ Is this the real life? Is this just fantasy?  _

He has a childhood that he recalls. Memories of university and primary school, but they are like smoke and mirrors, nothing clear. Why can’t he see his mother’s face or hear his dad’s voice? Not like these images and flashes he sees when he looks at Crowley, long-red hair braided and lean body draped in a vibrant white tunic. He hears the rumble of his voice. How can he explain all he knows about Crowley? His eccentric habits, his outlandish mannerisms, his cynical humor? 

What is all of that? Past lives or is Crowley’s story true? And what were they to each other? What was the arrangement? Sometimes he catches glimpses from Crowley, and Aziraphale wonders if they were more than friends.

The Bentley’s tires crunch to a stop in front of what Aziraphale assumes is the bed and breakfast. The16th century rubble-stone farmhouse rests majestically on a hill that surveys the town of Tadfield. Aziraphale wonders if fairies own it, since the home looks as though it's alive. The stone walls breathe with climbing ivy and the high-pitched roof points into the endless blue sky. 

But he sees nothing he recognizes. Aziraphale clears his throat and breaks the silence. “I must say, you said the weather was almost always fair here. This is a glorious day.” 

Aziraphale notes a flat-roofed old tack room that's been converted to a living space attached to the house. The tall casement windows sparkle in the sun and make Aziraphale feel welcome, but he feels no pangs of the familiar.

There are no signs to advertise the establishment, and it makes Aziraphale feel as if this isn’t a usual bed and breakfast but someone’s home. 

“That’s what a bed and breakfast  _ is _ . Someone’s home,” Crowley answers. 

“I feel it.”

Crowley smiles, pleased with himself. “You’ve been having a lot of feelings since we came here.” He bounces on his heels. “Good.”

Crowley taps on the boot of the Bentley and it pops open.

As Aziraphale removes his baggage, his stares in shock at his hand. “Oh, dear, a hangnail. I really should get a manicure. Do you think there is some place near?”

“Phfft!  _ No _ .” Crowley shakes his head as he digs his bags out after Aziraphale finishes lifting out his larger case.

They both turn to the sound of the door opening. An attractive young woman with long, dark wavy hair approaches them. Her long peasant skirt drags on the ground, and it gives the illusion that she’s floating over to them. 

Aziraphale’s mouth drops open. “It’s you!” Aziraphale blurts out, “The girl with the bike!”

She stops and stares at him, but doesn’t seem in the least confused. “Yes, I do have a bike.” She smiles and winks at Crowley, who winks back. 

Aziraphale's head swings from one to the other. Maybe this young woman is not confused, but he certainly is. 

“What’s happening here?” Aziraphale drops his bag.

“This is …”

“Anathema,” Aziraphale finishes. “She lives here.” 

Crowley laughs. “Correct, angel.” 

“And he’s visited before,” she replies, raising her eyebrow. “Without you.”

Aziraphale places his hands firmly on his hips.“That doesn’t answer my question.” 

“I believe it does,” she says, and winks at Crowley again as they all walk toward the house. “We’ve brought you here to help you.”

“Help me?” The more Aziraphale remembers, the more unsure he is that he  _ wants _ to.

“Newt!” she calls out, pushing her glasses back up her nose. “Our guests have arrived!”

From out of the side door of the converted tack room, a young man dashes to meet them. 

“My husband, Newton. Newton Pulsifer.”

He shakes Aziraphale’s hand. His face is that of an innocent. He is also oddly familiar. 

_ This is most unsettling. I know him as well.  _

“Let me take your bag,” he says to Aziraphale and ignores Crowley who is struggling with his. Probably packed clingy leather jackets, silk shirts and skin-tight trousers. He lived up to his Flash Bastard title.

“I’m making a special dinner,” she says. “A vegan casserole.” 

“Delightful,” Aziraphale says, although he’s not sure what a vegan casserole entails. They’re guided through the heavy double doors, and the home is just as inviting on the inside as it is out. 

“Follow me,” Newton nods. “I'll show you to your room. You can get cleaned up if you like.” 

Newton Pulsifer continues to jabber on about the renovations to home, the significance of each room, the complications they had installing the fixtures in upstairs bathrooms, along with the times breakfast and dinner will be served. He opens the door to their room. The one room with ...

“ _ One bed _ ,” Aziraphale gasps. His face becomes hot, legs wibbly-wobbly, and his stomach turns somersaults. 

His mind races with questions. _ Why only one bed?! Is this another way for Crowley to get him to remember? Were they more than friends? _

“Um, yes, I’ve set up a trundle bed,” Newton waves at it. “I’ll leave you two to clean up. Dinner is at six.” Newton shuts the door softly behind him. The hairs on the back of Aziraphale’s neck tell him that Newton is still standing on the other side of the door listening.

Crowley plops his suitcases down on the bed. “I can take the roll away bed if it’s a problem.”

“Problem, my boy? No, no problem. I’m sorry if I lead you to believe that. No, I will take it. My legs are shorter.” He clasps his hands together, but his heart pounds in his chest. It’s the strangest feeling his heart, pounding. It’s foreign and frightening. What were those lyrics? Thunderbolt and lightning?

“I meant that we could share the bed.” Crowley sits down on it and thumps the mattress with his hand. “I promise I won’t bite.”

“I’m not worried about that. I’m only thinking about how I might keep you awake.”

“Oh, your snoring? I’m used to it. I hear that through the wall every night. Look how big it is. And that trundle bed? It’s  _ pa _ -thetic. I’ll keep to my side, promise. No reason why we shouldn’t both be comfortable.”

“If you really think I won’t disturb you.”

“Ooh. Don’t worry your pretty head. I know I’m hard to resist, but you’ve faced temptation many times, and well, most times you’ve managed to overcome it—unless it had something to do with crepes or Foie Gras!” Crowley gives him a wicked smile and laughs. Whenever Crowley reacts like this Aziraphale is certain that Crowley is, in fact, a demon.

“You take that dresser, and I’ll take this one,” Aziraphale says, to change the subject. “We can take that jaunt through town and peruse the shops like you suggested earlier. Maybe we can find a bookstore. I’d like something to read, maybe some light poetry.”

Later, as they walk down the lane to town, Aziraphale’s mind begins whirling with thoughts of Crowley and temptation. 

The problem he sees is that he realizes he doesn’t wish to resist.

——————

Crowley knew exactly where the bookstore was—across from a splendid bakery that had the most sinful cherry tarts. To Aziraphale, the eerie familiarity clung to him as they devoured the tarts on a bench in front of the bakery, but that was all. Only familiarity, not the usual cinema reel of images running through his head.

“These are very good,” Aziraphale comments about the tarts. Then says aloud to himself: “Tadfield. The name of the town conjures these... feelings.” 

“Hmm. That so? What kind?”

“A bit of anxiety, trepidation. Do you think that destiny is somehow in play?” Aziraphale asks. 

“No, not destiny. It’s your past coming back.”

Why would this place make him feel uncomfortable? They stand and cross the street to the bookstore. The large doors creak and a bell jingles as they enter. 

The store has a few patrons about, including humans and one or two fairies. 

“I think I’ll look over here,” Crowley says as they separate. He doesn’t care much for poetry, light or otherwise.

Aziraphale wanders about. He was looking for verses that interest him, but instead he finds himself running his fingers over the binding of a glorious copy of _ Paradise Lost _ . He slips it from the stack and carefully opens it. It’s not a first edition, but it’s a splendid copy with William Blake’s illustrations. He’s debating on what to offer for it, when a boy bumps into him.

“Pardon?” the lad says, but it’s more a question.

Aziraphale takes one look at him. His knees buckle, the world spins and then goes white as he faints. He opens his eyes some time later to the same boy’s face looking down into his.

“Adam,” Aziraphale whispers woozily. He rubs his temple. “Your name is Adam. Adam Young.”

“Quite right!” the boy says.

“And that’s Dog. How do I know this? And how did I get here?” Aziraphale's blurry eyes find him in the backseat of the Bentley with a crocheted blanket in rainbow colours that someone had tucked under his chin. “The Bentley? And are those my crisps?!”

“Yes,” Adam says, licking his fingers. “They’re very tasty. You want one?” The boy offers the packet to Aziraphale.

“Not at the moment, no.” 

“They were in the basket. Mr. Crowley said I could have some.” 

Adam feeds the crisp to Dog. 

“I didn’t say you could give it to the dog,” Aziraphale says.

“You okay?” Crowley calls to him.

“How did you get me in the Bentley? We didn’t drive.” 

Along with Dog, Adam bounces up and down in his seat. “Easy enough to get you here. All Mr. Crowley had to do was snap his fingers.”

“Snap his fingers?” _ Oh, not that again. Clapping his hands, snapping his fingers caused remarkable things to happen.  _

“Yeah. Snapped em ‘n his car came roaring down the street to pick us up.” He put his hand out for Aziraphale to shake and grins. “It’s nice to see you again, Mr. Fell.”

He shakes the boy’s hand and a wave of images and emotions surge through him, but they aren’t from his eyes: he is looking through another’s. He looks down, and there are breasts! An ample bosom. He’s a woman? How is this possible?

“Do you really not remember me, other than my name, that is?” asks Adam.

He feels as if he’s going to faint again. “What’s happening to me?”

“I guess you could say it's an intervention of a sort,” Crowley answers. “I brought Adam here since he’s the key figure of what caused you to have your memory ripped from you. We thought we could use a drive.”

It’s a drive that Aziraphale does want to take. All these foreign ideas flying through his … head? Or is it? From above? He was already coming to some conclusions on his own.

He should ask to get out of this car right now! Intervention? He doesn’t want an intervention! He doesn’t need to have Crowley pushing him to remember. It was happening on its own. No need to rush it.

Aziraphale closes his eyes and sees himself—or herself. Fiery red hair, blue painted eyes, candy-apple lips...and she’s a medium. 

_ Of course she is.  _

_ Of course? All that time I didn’t believe Crowley’s outlandish stories! Now I’m beginning to see, to feel, and to believe every word. Yet, I look around and wonder if... _

“... this just is not possible,” finishes aloud. He continues to argue with reality and fantasy as the Bentley roars past the gates of an airbase. 

The panic inside him surges into a tidal wave of fear at the Bentley stops. A fence separates him from the airfield. 

“I can’t do this,” he says. He grabs the handle of the car door.

“You can,” Crowley answers. “Please try to remember. You’re inside there, the rest of you. It’s hidden away. They didn’t remove it because I can see it inside you whenever you let me in. They buried it deep inside and put thoughts to ignore it.”

“My teacher called it cognitive dissonance caused by conflicting beliefs and attitudes,” Adam says.

“In his case, it’s called celestial dissonance caused by too much archangelic might.”

Arizaphale looks out the window onto the airfield. He sees visions. People he didn’t remember until now. Adam, Them, and the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. And he was there as Madame Tracy.

Wait? How could he be an angel and Madame Tracy? This was all so mind boggling. He couldn’t be an angel,  _ could he _ ? Yet, he remembers this airbase. He remembers it’s call Upper Tadfield Airbase. He remembers a fiery Bentley roaring through the gates. He remembers Crowley. He remembers standing next to Crowley facing down Satan himself. 

With the revelations and the vision he remembers Crowley’s wings and his own. He even feels the itch in his back, the radiance, and the shimmer within him. He’s hit with the sudden irrefutable knowledge. 

“You are a demon.” There. He’s said it. 

“No?” Crowley gasps. “ _ Really _ ?”

**Author's Note:**

> Just a few quick notes on this chapter. First is that the title and chapters of this work are lines from a song by Pete Atkins titled [**"The Beautiful Stranger" (youtube of song linked)** ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Butt2hVdyzg). It's an allusion I'm using in the work, and the chapters will follow the themes. First is the glass or the crystal ball, but also the Tiffany Lamp (also in next chapter).
> 
> Little Richard and "Tutti-Frutti, good booty..." Yes, those are the real words. [**Here's the story behind the song** ](https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/music/tutti-frutti-little-richard/meaning). 
> 
> I cherish comments and kudos. I can’t say enough how important knowing you enjoy or liked just not my work, but other writers and creators on AO3 and other sites. 
> 
> Follow Elwinglyre on Tumblr: [**elwinglyre Tumblr** ](https://elwinglyre.tumblr.com/)


End file.
